


Home Is Where The Heart Is

by fhsa_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-08
Updated: 2004-09-08
Packaged: 2019-02-05 15:38:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12797454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Remarks: Just a bit of fun.  No attempt made at accurate characterisation ;-) In fact, a very different Alex for me. A tad on the submissive side — well kind of  The idea for the story is unashamedly ripped off from the movie 'The Quiet Man'





	Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

Many hours had passed since the rhythmic swaying of the railway carriage had rocked Walter Skinner to sleep. A sleep that was deep and undisturbed by the puffing of the ancient steam engine and the noisy clattering of the wheels on the rails. The kind of sleep he had not known for months. The kind his body craved.

 

For three days the train had crawled across the vast Kolkheti plain. At first the monotony of the landscape and his isolation within the private compartment served only to numb his uneasy mind as he watched mile after empty mile vanish into the past. Day and night merging seamlessly as the train journeyed eastward. It wasn't until noon of the third day that blessed sleep had come, renewing his strength and bringing him peace of mind.

 

With the dawning of the fourth day he found himself gently drifting towards wakefulness, but he lingered in the cocoon-like bed until the sun had climbed high into the sky. Only when his stomach began growling at him did he stir himself to stretch hugely, before reaching up to ring the buzzer for the steward. By the time the fussy little man tapped on the compartment door, Skinner had finished bathing in the miniscule washroom and was dressed.

 

"Ah, His Honour is awake today," the man remarked, the approval clear in his tone.

 

"Awake and hungry," Skinner told him, his re-surfacing mother tongue growing steadily more confident after four weeks of constant use.

 

"I will bring breakfast," the steward offered.

 

Skinner nodded his thanks, then moved to the window to watch the changing landscape as the train began the slow assent into the mountains. He lowered the window half way and immediately the compartment filled with the sweet smell of the pinewoods. He breathed it in deeply, the scent triggering vivid memories of early childhood. Running home barefoot across the top meadow from school ... the dumplings bubbling in the stew on the wood stove ... his mother weeping as she swept the kitchen floor for the last time ... his father sitting with his back to the window as the train carried him away from all things familiar, never to return.

 

The door opened and the steward carried in the laden tray.

 

"Ten minutes from the Khopher, Your Honour, then another hour to Alanazaniskaya," he told Skinner, placing the tray on the little table.

 

"Thank you," Skinner said, taking a handful of coins from his pocket to tip the man.

 

The steward bowed respectfully, a delighted smile on his face as he accepted the coins.

 

Skinner poured himself a cup of the thick, black coffee and moved back to the window. In the distance he could see the faint outline of the stone bridge that spanned the Khoper gorge. It was the place where Europe became Asia, and to him it marked the point of no return. He came to a decision. Setting down his cup he fumbled through the pockets of his jacket in search of his passport. He stared at it for a few minutes, contemplating all it signified and when the train trundled its way onto the bridge he threw it with enough strength to send it fluttering down into the chasm cut into the mountains by the foaming river far below.

 

It was hard to watch it go. It was hard to turn his back on the country that had welcomed his family in their time of need, giving them all refuge and the opportunity to prosper. But doing it drew a line under a past that contained some bitter memories: the loss of his parents and the awful night in Chicago when he killed a man.

 

As always the memories came flooding back to torment him. Once again he was in the ring in the middle of the smoky bear pit surrounded by the baying crowd. He was filled with their bloodlust, thinking and moving on the most basic instinctual level. His purpose was to win, to hunt, to kill. In slow motion he followed the lunge of his gloved hand as it travelled towards Toni Morelli's unguarded head. He heard the sound of the skull cracking. Watched the man's eyes roll back in his head as he hit the canvas.

 

He remembered the uproar that ensued. Remembered with horror the doctor's casual examination that ended with a shrug of his shoulders and a towel being placed over his victim's white face, while all around him a thousand flash bulbs exploded and he covered his eyes with his hands, seeking sanctuary from who he had become and what he had done.

 

It was the reason he was on a train crossing the vastness of the Ukraine. It was why Walter Skinner was no more. Why Sergei Ivanovich Petrenko was going home.

 

 

Alanazaniskaya was the sleepy little village he remembered, except that it was much smaller. Nestling in the heart of the Alanazani valley and surrounded on all sides by high snow-capped mountains, it was untouched by the modern world. The train whistle sounded shrilly as it began to trundle out of the tiny station and with it disappeared the only vestige of the twentieth century.

 

Sergei slung the large duffel bag over his right shoulder and walked out into the village square. Noting the unashamed stares he received from the passers-by and the old men sitting outside the coffee house, he was glad he had disposed of his own clothes and had replaced them with clothes in the style of the region before boarding the train.

 

The inn was where he remembered it and was unchanged. He jogged up the flight of stone steps and opened the heavy door to let himself into the dark timbered interior. The lobby was deserted and he dropped his heavy bag beside the desk and dinged the bell twice. Several minutes later an elderly man with furrowed, leathery skin slowly made his way towards the desk and greeted the guest.

 

"Welcome, sir. How may I help you?"

 

Sergei recognised him and smiled.

 

"I'd like a room, Olav Nikolayevich."

 

The old man looked at him in surprise. "Do I know you, sir?" he asked.

 

"You do, and you knew my father well," he replied, signing his name into the book and turning it back to the innkeeper.

 

"Sergei Petrenko," he read. "Your father is Ivan?"

 

"Yes."

 

"He ran to school with my Georg. Is he with you?"

 

"No. He died twenty years ago. An accident in the steel mill."

 

"God rest him," the innkeeper crossed himself three times. "And your mother?"

 

"She followed him the year after," Sergei whispered.

 

"They were soul mates," the old man remarked, unsurprised. "It was a hard blow for you, Sergei."

 

Sergei nodded.

 

"And you have returned to us," the ancient innkeeper said, "and welcome. Now come I'll take you to your room."

 

 

Within an hour Sergei was settled in a comfortable room, high in the eaves of the inn with its view of the mountains and its tall, narrow bed that would be too small for him. He ate lunch with the innkeeper and his equally ancient wife, being interrogated about his life and the goings on of the outside world, and somehow managed to get in enough questions of his own to confirm that Alanazaniskaya remained as it had been the day he and his family left over thirty years ago.

 

His hunger satisfied he wished them good day and set out on foot to complete the final leg of his journey that would take him to the place of his birth. The track was so familiar he found himself remembering individual stones and trees. And suddenly there it was, the little stone house that had been home to five generations of Petrenko's, looking a little sorry for itself but still intact of walls and roof.

 

The front door lay open to the elements and he crossed the threshold reverently, aware of the memories and ghosts that clamoured for his attention. The cracked, dirty windows and strewn floor vanished in his mind's eye, replaced by the neat, well-kept kitchen of a loving mother and wife. The empty rooms were filled with sturdy, simple furniture made by the hands of his father and grandfather, and everywhere there were voices, talking and singing and laughing. Sergei sat down heavily on the floor and for the first time since the death of his parents allowed himself to feel his loss.

 

For several minutes the feelings overwhelmed him, but after a little while a sense of being where he belonged crept into his consciousness and the bitter sorrow ebbed away, leaving him feeling peaceful and content. He straightened himself up and wandered through the rest of the house, then out the back door into the yard with its old wooden barn and open gate leading him towards the fields beyond.

 

Picking his way through the herd of goats grazing on what had been their horse pasture, it was only at the last minute that he noticed the figure curled up asleep in a bed of thick ferns. Drawing back a few steps, his breath faltered and his heart skipped a beat as he took in the beauty of the young man's sleeping face. The face of an angel framed by a riot of unruly, sable curls. As though alerted by Sergei's intense scrutiny, the young man began to stir uneasily in his sleep and suddenly sat up, his eyes opening to reveal the most intense shade of green Sergei had ever seen.

 

Confusion, then fear was reflected in those eyes before the young man pushed himself up to stand tall and slender, his hands brushing away the flurry of brown fern seeds that clung to his worn clothing.

 

Sergei searched for some kind of greeting but never got as far as delivering it. From over the hilltop behind the house rode a man on a fine bay stallion, his demeanour one of authority and ownership. He regarded them coolly and as he approached the young man moved away from him to slip imperceptibly behind Sergei.

 

He reined in the horse to stop a few yards from Sergei but remained mounted, the whip he carried in his left hand tapping impatiently against his thigh.

 

"Olav Nikolayevich told me you had returned," he said, his voice edged with contempt.

 

Sergei recognised the voice instantly. They had gone to school together until Nikolai's father had purchased a minor title from the bureaucracy in the distant capital. Following his 'ennoblement' the wealthy landowner no longer considered the village school a fit place for his son's education and employed a private tutor for the purpose. From then until the Pretenko family packed up and left the only interaction between the two boys invariably ended in brawling and to Sergei's cost. Looking up at the arrogant expression of the man above him he realised that this too was unchanged.

 

"Welcome home," Nikolai said offhandedly and insincerely before his gaze fell on the young man standing silently behind Sergei.

 

"I might have known I'd find you here, you lazy bastard," Nikolai sneered. He guided the horse past Sergei as he shook out the whip so that it's vicious barbed tip trailed the ground. "Get back to work."

 

His arm swung back to deliver a lash to the hapless young man who instinctively covered his head with both arms. But the crack of the whip never sounded. Instead the rider found himself hitting the ground with a resounding thump that left him winded and red faced.

 

"What the fuck ... " he blustered, looking up to find Sergei untangling the leather coil of the whip from his right arm, his face grim.

 

"It seems you're the cowardly bully you always were, Nikolai," Sergei remarked calmly.

 

Rage robbed Nikolai of the words needed for a reply. Instead he hauled himself into the saddle and recoiled the whip. Favouring Sergei with a contemptuous look he turned to the young man.

 

"I'll deal with you later," he threatened, but the words carried no sting and the young man smirked at him disrespectfully, no longer afraid.

 

He spurred his horse with unnecessary force and rode away at a dangerous speed down towards the village, leaving the two of them looking at each other uneasily.

 

"Thank you," the young man spoke at last.

 

Sergei nodded dismissively then held out his right hand.

 

"Sergei Petrenko," he offered.

 

The young man looked at him confused, as though unfamiliar with the custom. Then he cautiously took the hand in his own and shook it firmly.

 

"Alex Krycek," he said quietly before picking up the crook from the ground to begin herding the goats along a track that disappeared into the woodland at the bottom of the hill.

 

Sergei watched the young man's graceful movements as he followed the meandering animals and he smiled at the shy, over the shoulder glance directed back towards him: a glance that spoke more than a thousand words. It was the last thing on earth he expected. He suddenly realised that somewhere at the back of his mind he'd assumed his return to the homeland would result in marriage to a good woman, with whom he'd settle down and have children and that such a marriage with its commitments and responsibilities would put an end once and for all to his 'straying'.

 

Reluctantly he turned away from the alluring vision of Alex Krycek and retraced his steps to the house.

 

 

 

The supper dishes had been long since cleared and it was late into the night before Sergei turned the conversation to the subject of Alex Krycek. The old innkeeper looked at him for such a long time with eyes that seemed able to see into his very soul that Sergei blushed and dropped his gaze.

 

"So you've met Alex," the old man chortled. "Don't be fooled by the sweet face. That one's trouble."

 

Sergei rubbed a hand over a weary face. "Who is he?" he asked.

 

"He's Nikolai Zhuravlev's half brother," Olav explained. "When their father got his 'title' he decided it was fitting that a man of his stature should see something of the world outside. Disappeared off for more than six months. A year and a half later Alexandra Krycek and her son turned up on his doorstep. Beautiful woman. The son, fortunately for him, takes after his mother. Zhuravlev refused to acknowledge the boy but he set up a household for them on his estate. They wanted for nothing and according to the talk the old man eventually signed over a quarter of his land to the boy."

 

Olav paused to refill their tankards before continuing.

 

"About fourteen years ago a bad fever swept through the valley. It took many, including Zhuravlev and Alexandra. The boy was left to the tender mercies of Nikolai. I didn't think he'd make it if the truth be told. Used to turn up here at the back door looking half starved. My wife took to feeding him. For three years he slept in our back kitchen by the stove in the winter, but by the time he was about ten he seemed to be able to fend for himself. We only see him occasionally now. He rarely comes into the village."

 

"Why does he stay?" Sergei asked.

 

"Pig-headedness, I think. Won't give up on the land. Says it's his," Olav shrugged his shoulders expressively. "God knows he's suffered enough for it. He's treated like a serf up on the estate. It'll end with a killing, mark my words."

 

 

Sergei wound his way up the twisting staircase to his bedroom musing over the events of the day. Despite the uncomfortable dimensions of the bed he soon found himself tumbling into dreams filled with flashing green eyes and sable locks.

 

 

On the other side of the village another uneasy sleeper tossed and turned in his bed of straw. His dreams were of a fearless defender with a broad chest and smiling brown eyes.

 

 

Sergei Petrenko slowly ground his teeth in frustration as he spent yet another interminable day at the courthouse in Alanazaniskaya trying to establish who had title to his family lands. The magistrate had been fobbing him off for days with a series of convoluted legal arguments and his patience was reaching breaking point. He was just about to disregard his own good judgement and take Olav's advice to offer the civil servant a bribe when the courtroom door swung open to admit Nikolai Zhuravlev.

 

Striding up to the magistrate's bench, Nikolai asked, "Was I not going to be informed of this proceeding?"

 

Sergei shrugged off Olav's restraining hand and walked over to the bench. "What business is this of yours?" he inquired curtly.

 

"I applied for leave to purchase these holdings three years ago when old Nikitin died intestate. My claim takes precedence."

 

The magistrate scowled at the imperious tone in which the words were delivered. He opened a dusty law book and muttered to himself for a few minutes. Then snapped it closed abruptly and looked up to address the court.

 

"I find that case law supports the reclaiming of ancestral lands that have fallen within the jurisdiction of the court, so long as the direct bloodline can be established."

 

Even to Sergei's untrained legal ear this statement sounded like complete fabrication, but he closed his gaping mouth and smiled at Olav who shook his fist in triumph.

 

"But ... but ... " spluttered Nikolai.

 

Other than the smirking grins that appeared on every face in the courtroom, no one paid him any heed.

 

"Draw up a Deed of Title immediately," the magistrate instructed the clerk, "in the name of Sergei Ivanovich Petrenko for the lands as specified in his application. Set the price at fifteen thousand roubles ... "

 

Nikolai heard no more; gathering up whatever dignity he had left he stalked from the room.

 

Olav watched him go then said, "The seeds we plant can bear bitter fruit."

 

A ripple of muttered agreement passed through the room.

 

 

An hour later Sergei left the courthouse a happy and propertied man. He accompanied Olav back to the inn where after supper he packed his belongings and against the old man's entreaties, set out to spend the night in his own home.

 

Carrying his duffel and a storm lantern he followed the path up the hill to the old stone farmhouse. An unfamiliar contentment flooded his senses when he reached the front steps and he paused, turning back to look out into the velvety night adorned with its gleaming garland of Milky Way. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the poplars and the crickets, in fine voice, sang tunefully to its accompaniment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the summer-scented air, appreciating for the first time in years just how sweet life could be.

 

It was then he noticed the faint smell of wood smoke and setting down the duffel and lantern he coaxed open the old wooden door. The glow of a fire lighted the kitchen and as he entered the room his gaze fell on the neat pile of last year's leaves, the only remaining evidence of the debris that a few days ago had littered the floor. A hazel broom, hastily dropped, lay beside them.

 

He could sense the presence. Whoever it was stood, breath held, behind the door to the left of the fireplace. He looked around and found a rounded pebble on a window ledge. Taking careful aim and a pitcher's stance he let loose a yell before he flung the stone with all his might at the only remaining intact pane of glass in the house.

 

The roar and the sound of shattering glass spooked his 'guest' so much that a terrified yelp was heard from within the room followed by the desperate search for a way out. But there was only one way out and Sergei had that covered. Seconds later he found his arms full of fleeing Alex Krycek.

 

A not unhappy circumstance and one of which Sergei intended to take full advantage.

 

He tightened his grip and manoeuvred the struggling body back against the wall. When at last the younger man settled enough to make eye contact with him, he dropped his gaze to the parted lips, signalling his intention. The mouth remained open, even when his first tentative contact deepened into something more demanding. And when his tongue sought and was granted entry into the sweet, hot mouth he responded in kind to the growing hunger of Alex's body.

 

Knowing that very quickly things were going to get out of control, he pulled back from temptation incarnate and watched the beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes flutter open. The expression within them changed like a chameleon from intoxication to frustration and then to anger, and Sergei was not fast enough to dodge the fist that hurtled towards him, connecting with his jaw hard enough to rock him back on his heels.

 

But he wasn't to be caught a second time, and Alex suddenly found his two fists pinned behind his back by a strength that took his breath away.

 

They regarded each other for a long moment, vying for the psychological upper hand, before a smile stole across both their faces and they silently agreed to call it even. Sergei reluctantly released his grip.

 

Glancing over at the swept up leaves and cheerful fire he remarked, "It was a kind thought, Alex."

 

The young man's face took on a glow as warm as the fire. "It was just by way of a neighbourly act," he began, then mumbled, "and you were decent enough ... "

 

Sergei didn't allow him to finish. "Shhh ... " he whispered, placing his fingers against the bow-shaped mouth.

 

Alex slid his hands around Sergei's strong neck and coaxed him forward to steal a second, brief kiss, then pulled away and was gone from the room like a wraith. By the time Sergei reached the front door he could only see a faint shadow of the man moving into the cover as the bottom of the hill.

 

Six weeks of hard physical work, most of it by Sergei himself, saw the vermin cleared from the Petrenko farmhouse and the fabric of the building repaired. It began to look like the home he remembered, with its polished wooden floors and gleaming windows. When the work was done, various local craftsmen started delivering the furniture he had ordered. He now had a table and chairs and a range of cupboards and bookshelves. The purchasing of these items and the other household things he needed, as well as the hiring of workmen for specialized repairs, had eased his way back into the community of Alanazaniskaya. He had become a familiar face in the village and was warmly greeted when he would occasionally visit the inn to join the other men for an evening of vodka and tall tales.

 

Of Alex he saw nothing. Olav explained that the young man had been banished to the upper slopes with the herds for summer grazing. Sergei wasn't sure how he felt about that. He did need time to acclimatize to his new surroundings and to establish a place for himself in the close-knit and inward looking society. Immediately beginning a 'perverted' relationship with the village outcast was not the way to achieve that goal.

 

Yet Alex was in his mind constantly as he worked and cooked and cleaned and began to create a garden. And not just in a lustful way, though his sheets could bear ample testimony to the arousal the young man stirred in him. It was much more than lust. Alex's story and treatment had also evoked in him a strong yearning to protect. It felt to him as if, in that first moment of contact, a bond had been created between them and because of it he wanted to make Alex feel valued and cherished. He wanted them to make a home together. He wanted Alex to feel more than lust for him. He wanted to make him laugh.

 

At least the whole thing had finally settled one issue for him; as he walked from room to room through the house he knew there would never be a place for a woman in his life. Not unless he was prepared to turn what had always been a happy home into a place of misery, and he somehow knew his parents would never ask that of him.

 

The sound of a shout from outside called him from his reverie and he walked out into the July sunshine. A cart pulled by two large drays ambled its way up the path towards the house, Olav riding in front with the driver.

 

"It's arrived!" the old man shouted. "All the way from the city! I've never seen anything like it!"

 

Sergei breathed a sigh of relief. At long last, after months of tying to sleep in beds designed for dolls' houses or on the floor, he was going to be able to sleep in a proper bed with a box spring and a feather mattress. A bed that fit his 6 foot 2 inch stature; the price be damned.

 

Of course they didn't unload it immediately. It was a hot day and first the driver and his octogenarian helper had to be revived with a couple of tankards of ale while the horses were turned loose in the paddock. So by the time they removed the tarpaulin from the cart to reveal the bed in all its glory the two assistants were a little the worse for wear and Sergei was beginning to lose patience.

 

An hour later they'd only managed to get the various parts of the bed off the cart and over as far as the front door. Even Sergei had to admit the solid, awkwardly shaped pieces were hard to manoeuvre and he was sweating with the effort, having to bear most of the weight himself.

 

The trip-tapping sound of goats and their clanging bells caught Olav's attention.

 

"Ah, just what we need," he murmured and set off towards the rickety fence that marked where Sergei's land bordered that of Nikolai Zhuravlev's.

 

Sergei saw him gesture to the two men accompanying the herd and watched how they jumped the fence with alacrity to follow the old man back to the house. It was only as they got closer that his short-sighted vision focused sufficiently to identify one of them as Alex Krycek. His heart did a passable impression of a trip-trapping goat at full tilt, and Alex's flushed face and accelerated breathing told a similar tale.

 

With the extra pairs of willing hands, in no time at all they had the bed installed and assembled in the biggest bedroom of the house and they all stood back to admire it.

 

Letting out a slow whistle, Alex's companion remarked, "That's not a bed, it's a parade ground." Then he leered at the other four men and said, "A man would have to be a sprinter to catch his wife in a bed like that."

 

At his words Alex flushed bright red and disappeared out of the room. He was long gone by the time the others piled out of the bedroom and settled themselves for a much-needed refreshing drink of ale. Sergei let the chitchat flow around him while he thought about the incident. It was clear to him that Alex was, unbelievably at the age of twenty, still a virgin. The knowledge piqued both his protectiveness and his lust.

 

 

The village was decked out in all its finery and the air vibrated with energy and anticipation on the morning of the Mid-Summer Fair. Olav had carefully explained its nature and its significance to Sergei. It was much more than a festival. It was the valley's major financial event of the year, the time when livestock was bought and sold, when contract labourers were hired and, most importantly, when matches were made.

 

Sergei was bathed and dressed by eight o'clock and on his way to the inn where Olav eagerly awaited him in his role as guide and livestock advisor. They planned to begin the restocking of the farm and Sergei was glad to have the old man's assistance. For several hours the two of them wandered among the pens of cattle and sheep and goats comparing breeds and looking at condition. Eventually they found themselves beside the pens full of stock from the Zhuravlev estate.

 

Alex was there tending to the needs of the animals. He seemed to be the only person in the village who was not dressed in new clothes in honour of the celebration. As usual he was turned out in a worn shirt and pants, both slightly too large for him as though they were someone's cast-offs. It did not detract from his beauty, nor his grace.

 

"Good morning, Alex," Sergei greeted him.

 

"Good morning, sir," Alex replied.

 

"Fine looking animals," Olav commented, nodding towards the crossbred sheep.

 

"They had the best grazing in the valley," Alex told him.

 

"Will he be asking a high price?" the old man questioned.

 

Alex lowered his gaze abruptly at the sight of his half-brother striding towards them.

 

"He'll be asking a fair price," Nikolai stated. "But he'll be discerning in his choice of buyers. Of that you may be sure." The last was delivered with a cold stare towards Sergei.

 

"That's your privilege, sir," Sergei said. "Thank you, Alex."

 

The young man didn't reply. Instead, he tipped the water in the bucket he was carrying into the trough and went to fetch a refill. Olav shooed Sergei back towards the bidding ring so they could get a good place before the auction began.

 

By early afternoon the business was concluded and the stock Sergei had purchased was on its way to his newly fenced pastures. He and Olav adjourned to the inn to toast his new acquisitions. It was full of the usual faces and the humour was good. But they had barely time to take a first sip when the door opened to admit Nikolai Zhuravlev, whose face sported a darkening black eye and an expression like thunder. Going to the bar he threw down a gold coin and ordered a large measure of vodka, which he downed in one swallow. A second following quickly.

 

The tension in the room rose and when Olav's wife beckoned to him he left reluctantly to deal with whatever was troubling her. Nikolai watched him leave before he turned to face Sergei.

 

"Sergei Ivanovich Petrenko," he said in a loud voice. "I'm giving you fair warning to stay away from me, my land, my stock and my ... and Alex Krycek."

 

A complete hush fell over the room.

 

Sergei finished his drink before he stood up. "I'll happily stay away from you and your land and your stock," he agreed, "but who is Alex Krycek to you, that you should decide with whom he associates?"

 

"He's my ... he's my responsibility," the angry man blustered, "and I watched you flirt with him myself this very day."

 

"Flirting?" Sergei questioned with a smile on his face. "I said, 'Good morning' to him."

 

"Good morning ... yes ... but it was 'good night' you had on your mind."

 

"That's a lie."

 

The tension in the room seemed to bubble over.

 

"I take that from no man," Nikolai yelled, launching himself at Sergei, who neatly sidestepped the attack, leaving the other man to fall into a crumpled heap on the floor.

 

By the time he got back on his feet Olav had returned and had signalled for several of the younger men to restrain Zhuravlev. He struggled ineffectually in their grasp.

 

"You may feel no shame for what you are, Petrenko, but you'll not lay the same disgrace at the door of my family," he spat out.

 

"If you're looking for shame Nikolai, you need look no further than your own father," Sergei taunted. "Or better still yourself, who treats your dogs better than you treat your brother."

 

The words sent the man into a rage and Olav intervened in his sternest voice.

 

"That's enough, the pair of you. This is no place to discuss the matter. I'm sending the both of you outside to cool off and then you'll be called before the village elders."

 

He issued instructions which were obeyed to the letter and an hour later the two men stood subdued before the group of old men who laid down the law in the village of Alanazaniskaya.

 

"Let me warn you both," Olav cautioned, "there will be no repetition of your unseemly behaviour in the inn."

 

Both men nodded begrudgingly.

 

"Nikolai Konstantin what occurred today between you and your brother is the final straw."

 

Sergei clenched his fists and gave Nikolai a murderous look. "What did you do to him?" he demanded.

 

"Relax, Sergei," Olav warned, "Alex will recover quickly. He's being well looked after. We have been remiss in dealing with this matter in the past, but a solution seems to have presented itself. Sometimes these things are planned."

 

He looked from side to side at the other elders who all nodded sagely.

 

"Sergei Petrenko, are you willing to take responsibility for the wellbeing of Alex Krycek?"

 

Sergei blinked hard at the question.

 

"I ask again, are you - "

 

Sergei interrupted. "I heard you the first time. Don't you think Alex should be a part of this discussion?"

 

The old men chuckled happily at each other and it was left to Olav to answer the question.

 

"Alex has no name, no status and that means he cannot stand before the council. But you can give him status, and your name. An arrangement, it seems that Alex would be more than happy with. Now, what is your answer?"

 

"Uh ... then yes," Sergei replied, completely bewildered by the whole thing.

 

They could all hear Nikolai's teeth grinding.

 

Olav addressed him. "You should be the happiest of all the parties concerned, Nikolai Konstantin. At last someone is willing to take Alex off your hands. The whole village knows it's only a matter of time before one of you murders the other. And once the contracts are signed you'll be able to acknowledge him as your brother."

 

"Never," he ground out in reply.

 

"You're a foolish man," Olav admonished him, "but be that as it may, it's time to thrash out the terms of the settlement."

 

"Settlement?" Sergei questioned.

 

"Yes, in land," Olav answered.

 

"I want nothing from him," Sergei assured the old man, nodding towards Nikolai.

 

"Perhaps not, but Alex is entitled. If not for the express wish of their father which was ignored, then for the ten years of back-breaking labour the boy has given to the Zhuravlev estate."

 

"He was fed and clothed -"

 

"I've listened to enough from this piece of shit," Sergei interrupted. "Can you deal with the rest of this for me?" he asked Olav.

 

"It would be a privilege," Olav told him and then went on to answer his unasked question. "He's at the inn with Maria."

 

Sergei shook the old man's hand and hurried out of the community house.

 

 

He found Alex in the bed of the finest room in the inn, guarded by Maria, Olav's wife, who sat busily knitting in the corner and who showed no inclination to leave.

 

Sergei pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed and took Alex's hand in his own.

 

"Does it hurt bad?" he asked.

 

Alex began to speak, then winced when his split lip made its presence felt. Instead he squeezed Sergei's hand tightly.

 

Sergei nodded and lifted the hand to his lips for a kiss.

 

"Don't try to talk," he told the young man, "just nod."

 

Alex complied.

 

"Olav tells me you want us to be together."

 

The nod was empathetic.

 

"You're sure?"

 

Another nod and a weak smile.

 

"Good, then let's take you home."

 

The clatter of the knitting needles abruptly ceased.

 

"The day the contracts are signed. Until then, he stays here," Maria's reed-like voice informed them with finality.

 

The clatter of the knitting needles resumed.

 

 

 

The thought that his and Alex's future would be sealed by the signing and exchange of contracts greatly amused Sergei. Unfortunately it was the only part of the whole affair that was amusing. The rest was a nightmare.

 

Two weeks of 'wedding' preparations and rituals. Fourteen days of Alex being passed like a parcel around the black-garbed matriarchs of Alanazaniskaya, whose raison d'etre was to make sure the young man came to the marriage bed virgo intacta. Three hundred and thirty-six hours of sexual frustration, raised to the power of two by Alex's rapid recovery from the injuries he had received at the hands of his half-brother.

 

It got so bad that by the day before the signing of the contracts they couldn't bear to be in each other's presence for longer than five minutes at a time, which was just as well since around noon Sergei was banished from the village to spend the last night of his bachelorhood in solitary contemplation of his fate.

 

What the night held in store for Alex, Sergei did not want to know, but when they met at the appointed time the following day outside the Community House, the young man looked like he had been washed, waxed and polished. Gone were the tangled, unruly curls, the dirty, broken fingernails and the ill-fitting clothes. His hair was neatly trimmed and gleaming in the sunlight. He wore the traditional white linen shirt of the region with its billowing sleeves and intricate embroidery, tucked into snug fitting black pants, which were, in turn, tucked into a new pair of black Cossack riding boots.

 

The sight of him took Sergei's breath away, and he was delighted to find Alex returning his gaze as if everyone else present had ceased to exist.

 

Olav, on behalf of the council called everyone in to the central room. Two high-backed chairs sat side by side opposite the elder's council table. Sergei and Alex were ushered into them and the ceremony began. Forty minutes later they got to the signing the contracts. Sergei placed his signature on the two documents and looked up to smile at Alex, expecting him to be called next. But it was not Alex who was called, it was Nikolai Konstantin Zhuravlev. Sergei watched Alex flush faintly and lower his gaze as his inebriated half-brother stepped forward from the crowd to sign the documents. Finishing, he threw down the pen, directed a poisonous look at Sergei, pointedly ignored Alex, and lifting his copy of the contract stalked out of the room.

 

At his departure the entire company drew a collective sigh and began celebrating.

 

Olav and Maria did them proud. The inn was full of greenery and flowers that perfumed the summer air. The food was plentiful and the ale flowed. The speeches, though long, were humorous and saucy and were given along with gifts of livestock and bags of jingling coins. After them came the music and dancing. Much to Sergei's relief, he and Alex were only expected to lead off the first dance from which they escaped quickly, neither of them familiar with the age-old steps, and instead they were encouraged to feed each other from the dishes of special 'bride' food on their table.

 

Several hours later when the music began to take on a wild edge, Olav stood up and banged on the table hard enough with a tankard to get everyone's attention.

 

"As you know it is usual at this time" he began solemnly, "to bring out the marriage bed so that babies can be placed in it for good luck." He looked over at Alex who blushed crimson. "But, in this case, I think we can forego that particular custom."

 

Raucous laughter followed the lewd comments this gave rise to.

 

"So, I give you a toast."

 

Everyone stood up.

 

"To Alex and Sergei. May their days be many and full of health. May their troubles be few and gone by morning. And may they live together in happiness and peace."

 

Tankards were raised and drained.

 

Into the silence that followed Olav said quietly, "And now I think it's time for bed."

 

A huge roar went up and Alex and Sergei found themselves lifted up onto sturdy shoulders to be carried from the room. Outside the farm cart awaited them and they were hoisted up into it with more enthusiasm than care. Olav handed Alex a satchel containing their 'bride' money and contracts and someone whacked the horse's rear hard enough to send it forward into a brisk canter along the road. Sergei struggled with the reins to get the animal under control, but when he caught sight of the noisy crowd running after them he spurred the animal forward again, trusting its knowledge of the road.

 

Fortunately the horse knew the way well for, once clear of the village, Alex pulled Sergei into a kiss that lasted until the cart drew to a halt outside the farmhouse door, and several minutes beyond.

 

Sergei drew back and croaked, "Alex ... we need to stop ... I don't want our first time to be like this ... "

 

Alex nodded mutely and wrapping his arms around Sergei's neck held on while they waited for the desperation to recede.

 

Long minutes later, Sergei leaned down to kiss Alex's forehead as he asked, "Ready to go in?"

 

"Mmmm," Alex murmured and released his hold so they could climb down from the cart.

 

"Take the things in, my love," Sergei said gently. "I'm just going to turn the horse loose in the paddock."

 

Dreamily Alex lifted the satchel and wandered up the steps and into the house. One of the neighbours had lighted the lamps and lit a fire. Alex was glad of it. Even in high summer the evenings could be chill in the mountains. He looked around the welcoming room, feeling a happiness he had not known since the death of his mother.

 

"Home," he whispered softly, then listened. No voice said otherwise.

 

He put the satchel down on the table where a bottle of rich red wine rested, uncorked and breathing, beside two goblets. He filled them and lifted one to his lips to drink. The liquid ran like fire into his stomach, complimenting the fire that quickened his blood. It was the best wine he had ever tasted but he set the glass aside, not wanting to blunt the keenness of his senses by drinking too much. Instead, he lazily pulled his shirt from his pants and undid the pearl finished buttons. As he did so the rolled up contract caught his attention and he pulled it out of the satchel. Impatient for Sergei's return he uncurled the documents and idly began to read.

 

Sergei cursed his fumbling hands that took three times longer than usual to complete the simple task, but at last the horse was settled and content and he was running back to the house and the arms of his beautiful, adoring lover -

 

\- who had been transformed into a demon spitting fire who paced the room, the contract clutched in his hand.

 

"When were you going to tell me?" he demanded of the confused Sergei. "In the morning when you'd stolen the only thing I can call my own?"

 

"Wh -what ...?" Sergei stammered.

 

"Well, that you will not take from me," Alex spat out. "By contract you have my labour and my land. But you'll have no other part of me. Not while I am the servant I have always been."

 

"What are you talking about?" Sergei asked, finding his voice.

 

"The land. My land," he groaned. "It's been signed over to you.

Sergei moved to comfort Alex. Tormented by the pain he read in the beloved face. But Alex pushed him roughly away.

 

"Don't touch me!" he warned.

 

"I don't want your land, Alex," Sergei cajoled. "All I want is you."

 

"Then why did you sign this?"

 

"I never read it," he pleaded. "I'll go to the council tomorrow. I'll transfer the title to you."

 

"No!" roared Alex. "HE has to transfer it to me."

 

Sergei looked at him doubtfully. "I don't think he'll agree to that."

 

"Then you must make him," Alex said with venom.

 

Sergei looked deep into the angry eyes and saw his own hurt reflected. It knocked the wind out of him and he sat down heavily on a chair.

 

"Go to bed," he said quietly. "We'll deal with this in the morning."

 

At first Alex seemed reluctant to end the angry scene, but eventually white-faced and breathing hard he threw the contract on the floor and strode off into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a bang.

 

A few seconds passed and then the unmistakable sound of a bolt being shot was heard throughout the house.

 

Something in Sergei snapped. Erupting from his chair he closed the distance to the locked door and, judging it perfectly, delivered a kick powerful enough to burst the door open and leave it swinging on its hinges. Inside the room Alex froze as the big man stalked towards him, stopping only to strip the comforter on the bed back to reveal the snowy white sheets beneath. Then he was held firmly in the powerful arms while a large hand pulled on his hair to raise his face eye level with that of his erstwhile lover.

 

"There'll be no locks or bolts between us Alex, except for those in your own mercenary little heart."

 

Sergei brought their mouths together in a brutal kiss. Ending it abruptly he swung the unresisting younger man up into his arms and carried him to the bed, where he dropped him unceremoniously into its feather softness. With a contemptuous look at his flailing lover he left the room and the house, unheeding of the temper tantrum his actions caused.

 

 

 

Despite the wedding toast, their troubles were not gone by morning, nor was there happiness and peace in the Petrenko household. Instead, there was an uneasy truce. When Alex emerged from the bedroom to find Sergei stirring from sleep on the sofa he went into the kitchen and made a breakfast that was eaten in silence. Going their separate ways, Sergei to work in his garden, Alex to check on the livestock, they spent the morning in bitter contemplation of how the joy of their wedding day had turned to ashes.

 

At noon Alex returned to the house to find Sergei planting roses in the plot to the side of the house. His pragmatic mind would not allow him to remain silent.

 

"Roses?" he said indignantly. "They will be of little use to fill our bellies when the winter comes."

 

Sergei ignored him.

 

"Look at this place! Camellias and roses," Alex continued exasperated, pointing here and there around the garden. "No potatoes, no cabbages ... "

 

"No lovers ... " Sergei interrupted quietly.

 

Alex's face fell and he looked at Sergei with a longing that let that him know he was not alone in feeling disappointment and regret. Somehow it helped to ease the hurt he felt and made him all the more determined to try to understand the complex young man to whom he had given his heart.

 

"You'll have to make a farmer of me Alex," he said, making peace, "these are the only things I've ever planted."

 

Alex relented a little.

 

"My mother had a beautiful garden. Sometimes the smell of roses brings her back to me," he told Sergei fingering a fat, unopened bud. "I suppose there's room for cabbages ... and roses."

 

Sergei smiled at him and asked," So what do we need to get started on the planting?"

 

"We need a plough and a cultivator to sow winter wheat in the top fields, and we've time enough to put in a crop of ... "

 

The sound of a carriage approaching distracted Alex from his plans and they both looked down the road to see Olav driving a neatly turned out cob pulling the smart two-wheeler.

 

"Hello," the old man shouted up to them, grinning from ear to ear. "I hope it's not too early to call."

 

"No," Sergei reassured him with a sigh, remembering the happier circumstances two days ago when he'd arranged this surprise with Olav, "you're not disturbing anything."

 

He saw the old man's curious look but paid it no heed as he turned back to Alex who was admiring the sleek lines of the carriage.

 

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked.

 

"It's ... beautiful," Alex told him.

 

"Good," he said. "Why don't you try it out then?"

 

Alex looked at him totally perplexed.

 

"Go ahead," Sergei said patiently, "It's yours."

 

"Mine?"

 

"Yours," he reiterated.

 

Olav nodded in confirmation and handing the reins to Sergei, slowly stepped down so Alex could take his place. The young man was dumbstruck but he lightly jumped up into the driving seat, his hands caressing the dark, polished wood before he accepted the reins from Sergei.

 

"Ready to try it out?" Sergei asked.

 

Alex just nodded.

 

"You can take me home," Olav suggested.

 

"Of course," Sergei agreed, "and while we're in the village we can use the money from the wedding to buy you some new clothes."

 

He looked with distaste at Alex's old, worn clothing.

 

"Excellent idea," agreed Olav, as he climbed into the carriage beside Alex.

 

"I'll just be a few minutes," Sergei told them, looking at his grimy hands. "I need to wash up."

 

He disappeared into the house and Alex's gaze followed him disbelievingly. Finding his voice at last he asked, "What manner of man is this I have chosen?"

 

Olav looked at him wisely and replied, "A better one than I think you know, Alex Petrenko."

 

 

 

 

They dropped off Olav at the door of the inn and drove into the centre of the village, coming to a halt in front of the General Merchants. Sergei stood back and enjoyed the way Alex preened in front of the nosey passers-by as he secured the reins of the carriage with a proprietary flourish.

 

Inside the store they spent a long time poring over equipment and seed catalogues before placing a detailed order and arranging for delivery of the items that were immediately available. That done they went into the clothing section and began looking through the rails and shelves for Alex's new wardrobe. The young man had no idea what size fit him, but the clerk's practised eye unerringly determined the correct fitting and soon there was a collection of garments set aside for wrapping on the counter top. Alex adamantly resisted Sergei's more indulgent choices in favour of sensible, cleanly cut designs that would give plenty of wear, but there was no hesitation when the older man suggested he change into one of the new outfits so the Zhuravlev 'hand-me-downs' could be disposed of.

 

Smartly dressed and in good humour, Alex preceded Sergei out of the store, the energy that always crackled between them sparking again with renewed intensity. After tossing the bundle of packages up onto the seat of the carriage, Alex turned back to smile at him.

 

"Home, I think," he said softly before untying the reins and stepping up onto the running board.

 

Sergei answered with a delighted smile and handed his bundle of purchases up to his lover. Alex stowed them beside the others and took his place in the driving seat, glancing over his shoulder as he did so to check that there was a clear space behind the carriage into which he could reverse. Suddenly he froze and his face took on a sullen and shuttered expression. Sergei didn't need to look over to see who had caused the abrupt change in Alex's demeanour, for the only time he had seen him wear that expression was in the presence of his half-brother.

 

"He's with Lukin," Alex whispered urgently. "That means he's been drinking and there's a trustworthy witness. It's a good time to ask him."

 

He nodded towards the other side of the street and Sergei looked across to see Nikolai leaning heavily on the shoulder of a tall, blond haired man. He pointed to them and made some comment that caused the blond man to guffaw loudly before taking a long swallow from the bottle of vodka he carried.

 

"Hurry," Alex said, urging Sergei in the direction of the two unsteady men.

 

Sergei looked at him disbelievingly.

 

"I have no intention of discussing our business in public with a drunken man," he told Alex flatly. "If there comes a time for that, it will be in the presence of the council and when he is stone cold sober."

 

Hearing the words Alex gave Sergei a long, cool stare, then in a movement like quicksilver he grabbed the buggy whip and cracked it inches from the cob's right ear so the animal shied and lurched forward, narrowly missing the rail of the storefront as it galloped away.

 

Sergei was left standing in the roadway looking foolish and the embarrassment and frustration he felt grew tenfold when he registered the uncontrolled laughter coming from across the street. Refusing to acknowledge either the amused or sympathetic looks of the people around him, he strode out deliberately in the opposite direction to the one Alex had taken.

 

 

Sergei was too angry to consider going directly home so instead he doubled back around the village and went to the inn. He chose a quiet, corner table and within minutes Olav was joining him, bringing a measure of brandy. Sergei murmured his thanks but did not touch the drink.

 

"I heard all about it," the old man told him.

 

Sergei looked up at him, sorrow etched into his face.

 

"Olav, I don't know how to deal with this," he said. "All I know is I can't take much more."

 

Olav placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 

"You must remember that you have taken a half wild thing into your home, and a damaged one," Olav said. "He's carrying around a lifetime of anger and resentment. You can't expect that to just disappear."

 

"But I love him," Sergei told him, as if that should cure all ills.

 

Olav smiled. "I know you do and I know in his own way Alex loves you just as much, but this is Alanazaniskaya, not America. I have heard that these romantic notions abound in America. Here, love is less important than tradition and pride. Alex needs more than love, he needs his pride back. And there is only one way to achieve that in this valley. He's taken beating after beating over the years but he hasn't the physical strength to defeat Nikolai."

 

Olav looked at Sergei expectantly.

 

"You mean he expects me to fight Nikolai for him?" Sergei asked incredulously.

 

"He expects you to beat the shit out of him," Olav confirmed, "and not just Alex, that goes for the whole village."

 

Sergei looked aghast.

 

"There must be some other way to settle this land thing - "

 

Olav interrupted him, "This isn't really about the land, this is about pride. And not only Alex's, I believe Nikolai is waiting for your challenge too. That's why he insisted on giving the title of the land to you. You threaten his position here in Alanazaniskaya."

 

Sergei looked suspiciously at the old man.

 

"And you couldn't have warned me about this?" he asked.

 

"Along with everyone else in the village, I think it's past time Nikolai got put in his place."

 

"Thanks," Sergei said sarcastically. "But it's not that simple. I can't fight him, Olav. I have my reasons. The reasons that brought me home to Alanazaniskaya in the first place."

 

"Don't fret over it now," Olav counselled. "Go home, Sergei."

 

Sergei looked at him doubtfully.

 

"Trust me," the old man told him with confidence.

 

Sergei nodded wearily and stood up.

 

"Do you want me to drive you home?" he asked.

 

"No, the walk will clear my head."

 

 

Alex was standing beside the fireplace, staring into the flames, when Sergei got home. He glanced up at the older man and Sergei read regret and desolation in his face as he sank gratefully into the sofa with a weary sigh.

 

"Have you had your supper?" Alex asked.

 

"No, I'm not hungry."

 

There was a moment of silence then Alex walked over to the sofa and sat down, leaning lightly against Sergei's side.

 

"I had a talk with Olav," he told the older man.

 

"Oh?" Sergei asked, wondering how Olav had passed his days before his return to the village.

 

"Well, he talked, I mostly listened," Alex told him with chagrin, making Sergei smile. "He told me I should be ashamed of how I treated you last night, that though we may be poor and backward in Alanazaniskaya, at least here a married man sleeps in his own bed, not on a sofa."

 

"One of your better customs," Sergei remarked. "I missed my ... our bed last night."

 

"It was big and lonely," Alex told him, sliding an arm around his lover's neck.

 

"The sofa was small and lonely," Sergei murmured, pulling Alex closer until the young man's head rested on his shoulder.

 

They sat like that for a long time watching the fire spark and settle until Alex turned his face to nuzzle into Sergei's neck and ran his hand across the broad chest. Sergei relaxed, content to let Alex set the pace of things and when the younger man straightened to look him in the eye before initiating a deep and sensual kiss he leaned back, open and welcoming, ready to give Alex anything he needed.

 

The sweetness of the kiss soon gave way to heat, and the young man climbed onto Sergei's lap, seeking bodily contact. Sergei let his hands sweep down the slender back until they came to rest on the rounded, firm buttocks and pulled them forward to bring Alex's hardness in line with his own. The young man gasped and arched his back, breaking the kiss and exposing the white curve of his throat to his lover. Sergei lapped at it, then sucked on it, drawing murmured curses from Alex's lips. When he was satisfied with the darkening mark he'd left on the soft skin he pulled back and watched Alex's head fall forward and his eyes flutter open and focus.

 

"I love you," he said, his voice husky and shaky as he brought his hands to the top button on Alex's shirt, where they hesitated, while his eyes sought permission to continue. Alex, managing to look lustful and terrified at the same time, eagerly nodded his consent and watched as the strong hands gently parted the coarse linen to bare his chest. When the shirt was pushed out of the way, Sergei slid his hands upwards from the taut stomach until thumbs contacted the peaked nipples. He circled them tenderly and smiled as the sensation caused Alex to begin a sensual rocking of his hips.

 

"Sergei?" he called between snatched breaths, the name becoming a request for guidance.

 

"All you have to do is hold on," Sergei reassured him, taking hold of Alex's arms and placing them around his neck, before he quickly opened the button fly and released the hard, dripping cock from it's cotton prison.

 

A quick glance downward and the feel of it in his hand ended the months of fantasized speculation.

 

"You're beautiful, in every way," he whispered into Alex's delicately shaped ear as he swirled his palm around the head to moisten it with pre-come and started to stroke with just the right amount of grip.

 

Alex looked into Sergei's eyes and groaned in pleasure then he lowered his head to rest on his forearm where he whimpered in response to each movement of his lover's hand.

 

Even though his own needs were being ignored, Sergei wanted this first time to go on forever. He gloried in the knowledge that he was the first and only man to have brought Alex such ecstasy, but he knew that this was not the time to tease and that what his lover needed most was a joyful and satisfying release.

 

So he slipped his left hand into the back of the loosened pants and traced along the path nature designed to the sensitive spot he knew he'd find behind Alex's balls. Reluctantly skimming over the tight little pucker he intended to get to know intimately, he began to scrape lightly on the silky patch of skin, creating enough stimulation to make Alex shout to the heavens as his come poured from his body to liberally spray them both.

 

Covered in the sheen of sweat and breathing hard, Alex collapsed forward into Sergei's supporting strength. It was a couple of minutes before he could gather the energy and the wit to speak.

 

"That was ... I didn't know it could be ... better than I dreamed ... " he mumbled into Sergei's shirt.

 

"That's just a beginning, my love," Sergei promised, kissing his forehead.

 

Indulgently, he smiled at how his inexperienced lover seemed unaware of the arousal he had awakened in the older man, but then a hand loosened its grip on his neck and moved to the opening in his pants.

 

"May I?" Alex asked.

 

The tentative press of Alex's hand against his straining cock was enough to make him hiss in reaction.

 

"You may do whatever pleases you," Sergei ground out. "But I suggest we make use of the bed this time."

 

With the resilience of youth Alex sprang to his feet and his opened pants allowed Sergei to see that his cock, which had never fully softened, was once again half hard. He let his eager lover pull him up out of the sofa and hand in hand they went into the bedroom, its angry memories of the previous evening banished forever.

 

Alex returned to his task and within a few short minutes he had his lover stripped and was staring in awe at what the sober clothes had hidden. Sergei allowed himself to enjoy the moment. He'd always had a good body and he'd always looked after it. In his profession it had been essential, but he'd wanted to do it anyway. Alex's hand followed the curves and dips in the sculptured muscles from the shoulder to the abdomen, against which Sergei's long, thick and slightly curved cock pressed. He ran his fingers along its length from base to tip and watched with fascination how Sergei reacted strongly to the touch. Growing braver, he wrapped his hand fully around the cock and squeezed the shaft while sweeping a thumb across the head.

 

"Alex!" Sergei warned. "Stop ... I'm too close."

 

The younger man pulled his hand away abruptly, afraid of getting it wrong.

 

"It's fine," Sergei told him, "let's just take it a little slower. It's been a while since I could recharge like this." He reached out and cupped Alex's genitals, admiring the rosy cock that stood again at attention.

 

They kissed deeply and when it ended they both stripped Alex of his clothes and fell together into the big bed where they wrestled playfully, enjoying the sensation of skin on skin.

 

It was Alex who ended it by leaning over Sergei and asking him to fuck him.

 

Sergei face clouded. Much as he wanted it, he didn't want Alex to be hurt or frightened.

 

"We've plenty of time, Alex. Let's get to know - "

 

Alex interrupted him by placing a hand over his mouth.

 

"It's time, Sergei. Make me yours."

 

The older man could not argue with that. He kissed his lover tenderly, settled him in the centre of the bed and fetched the little bottle of oil from the dresser. Alex's now fearless eyes followed his every movement intently until they closed tightly against the waves of pleasure Sergei's knowing hands sent crashing through him.

 

He did not prolong the preparation, and when he had opened Alex's body he lifted the young man's legs over his shoulders and placed himself at the precious entrance.

 

"Take a deep breath," he requested and was obeyed. "Now let it out."

 

At the end of the exhalation he pushed forward in one smooth movement and was exhilarated to find himself sliding with little resistance or distress into his virgin lover.

 

Alex panted a few times then sighed deeply, the little line above his nose disappearing as his face relaxed. Sergei began a shallow thrusting and he caught hold of Alex's hands to interlace their fingers. Alex looked up at him and smiled.

 

"Kiss me," he demanded and crossing his ankles behind Sergei's back, pulled the older man forward with his strong legs. The change of angle deepened the penetration and Alex gasped, his request forgotten as he rocked up to meet Sergei's suddenly powerful thrusts.

 

"Mine," Sergei growled when he felt control slipping away from him and, in agreement, they both rushed headlong to fulfilment, coming together with an intensity neither had felt before.

 

Unwilling to part they settled together in a close, untidy tangle of limbs and blankets. Through the rest of the night they talked and explored each other. Just before dawn Alex found himself eager to drink from the well once more and this time he took control to discover that giving pleasure was just as pleasurable as receiving pleasure.

 

The sky was lightening rapidly when, at last, they gave way to sleep.

 

 

Sergei Petrenko couldn't remember the last time he woke up feeling happy. But that's how he felt, happy and contented and loved. The only thing he didn't like about the perfect, summer morning was that he had awakened alone. Alex should have been lying safe in his arms. It was something he intended to correct immediately.

 

Putting on his robe he made a quick visit to the bathroom and followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen. No sign of Alex, so he poured himself a cup and carried it out through the back door towards the barn.

 

"Alex!" he called and got no answer.

 

His happy mood began to dissipate. He was going to have to address the boy's lack of romance. This was a honeymoon, not the time to be thinking about ploughing. Well, not that kind of ploughing anyhow. The thought made him smile.

 

He went back into the house and glanced into the other rooms before opening the front door to check in the paddock for his missing lover. No Alex, but he found Olav sitting at the table, puffing on a clay pipe, a coffee cup before him.

 

"He's gone, Sergei Ivanovich," Olav told him.

 

"What do you mean, gone?" Sergei asked quietly.

 

"Knocked on my door an hour ago wanting to borrow money for the train fare to Kiev."

 

Sergei's fists clenched, turning his knuckles bone white, and he made a kind of strangled howling sound.

 

Olav ignored it and continued, "Told me he loved you too much to live with you in shame."

 

The explanation did nothing to calm his boiling temper but he managed to grind out the words he needed.

 

"What train?"

 

"The noon train."

 

Sergei glanced at the position of the sun in the sky and his face fell.

 

"Oh don't fret," Olav said calmly, "the noon train doesn't leave until two o'clock."

 

Perversely, the good news only served to irritate Sergei further and he stomped back into the house muttering foul insults about his homeland and its excuse for a railway system.

 

Not a word was spoken on the drive to the village. Sergei was in no mood to hear cajoling words of wisdom and Olav had the sense to keep quiet.

 

"Stop," Sergei ordered when they reached the inn, "I'll walk from here."

 

"It's no trouble, you can have the carriage," Olav said.

 

"We won't be needing the carriage," Sergei assured him as he climbed down and went stalking off in the direction of the station.

 

Olav chuckled and scurried into the inn to make his report. The gathered crowd fell silent at his entrance; the last thing of interest that had happened in Alanazaniskaya was that revolution upset, and it had been half a continent away in 'Petersburg.

 

"Well?" someone asked.

 

Olav grinned. "He's walking him back. All the long way."

 

A cheer went up and the room emptied, leaving Olav to follow in their wake.

 

 

Sergei made no attempt to quell the anger coursing through him. If anything, he fed it by remembering all the aggravation and hurt he had willingly endured at the whim of his supposed lover, and by the time he crossed the threshold of the station he was truly seeing red.

 

The engine stood huffing and puffing while the guard and porter quibbled about whose responsibility it was to see that the two goats in the baggage car were properly watered. The sight of him ended their argument and they watched as he began checking each compartment for the runaway. The first was empty and he slammed the open door closed in frustration. The whole train shook. It felt good. The second was also empty and its door was similarly treated. One by one each compartment was systematically searched and left rocking as its door was slammed into place with a satisfying thud.

 

He was more than halfway along when he saw the sable-haired head being hastily withdrawn from an open window at the very end of the train, but he didn't go straight to Alex's carriage. Instead he continued to slam shut every open compartment door as though it had personally offended him.

 

The door to Alex's compartment was already shut.

 

It, he tore open.

 

The young man sat wide-eyed in the most distant corner not moving a muscle. When Sergei caught hold of him by the coat lapels and pulled him to his feet, he yelped in surprise. Sergei bared his teeth at him and dragged the resisting body from the carriage. Unfortunately for Alex, he hadn't got his feet properly under him when they stepped onto the platform and he went to his knees awkwardly. With the strength of a man possessed Sergei changed his grip to the traditional 'collar' position and impatiently hauled Alex to his feet.

 

Then Sergei set off at a brisk pace, Alex stumbling beside him along the platform that was littered with baggage and crates. He had no choice but to vault several of the items that stood in the path Sergei made him follow. The pieces of luggage he didn't manage to successfully leap he was trailed across as though they weren't there and by the time they left the small station he was already black and blue in several places.

 

Outside Sergei halted momentarily when he saw the crowd of gaping onlookers waiting for them to emerge, but he gritted his teeth and steered a course through them into the main street of the village. A sharp right turn and they were on the road to the farmhouse, the entire population of Alanazaniskaya in tow.

 

Even if it hadn't been for the rage that drove Sergei, Alex would have been a poor match for his heavier, more mature lover. Though equal in height, there was no equity between them in terms of muscle mass or stamina. That didn't stop Alex from trying, mind you, and just as they reached the edge of the village he took a wild swing at Sergei's jaw. The older man saw it coming and ducked, causing Alex to spin round in such a way that he lost his footing and hit the ground hard in an undignified sprawl.

 

The groan that Alex gave as his ass connected with the roadway reminded Sergei that it was tender for a reason other than the impact and he couldn't resist reminding Alex of it. Taking hold once again of the sturdy collar of Alex's jacket he trailed him along on his behind, making sure it felt the good of every bump and pothole. Only when Alex howled in pain did he relent and stop long enough to allow the young man to climb unsteadily to his feet, then it was off again, before the victim could gather his wits.

 

Halfway to the farm an older woman broke away from the crowd and ran to catch up with the pair. She held out a substantial piece of birch towards Sergei.

 

"Sir," she shouted, "here's a good stick to beat the lovely lad."

 

Sergei looked at it and her and was shocked to find himself considering the possibility of using it. It was certainly making an impression on Alex who was staring at it wide-eyed.

 

"Thanks," he said taking it from her and swishing it menacingly through the air. "Maybe later," he added for his lover's benefit.

 

Soon the whole procession had reached the gate of the Petrenko holding but to everyone's surprise Sergei did not steer Alex through it; instead, they went straight past and headed towards the Zhuravlev Estate.

 

A gasp of shock arose from the crowd and Alex groaned again.

 

"What my love," Sergei hissed, "you don't want me to go talk to your brother?"

 

Alex shook his head vehemently.

 

"But you were so keen yesterday, my pet," Sergei continued ignoring the unspoken plea. "And you were right, this matter needs to be resolved."

 

With renewed vigour and determination Sergei lengthened his stride, forcing Alex to scramble to keep up with him.

 

A quarter of an hour later they were crossing the fields to where Nikolai Konstantin Zhuravlev was supervising the threshing and baling of his crop of wheat. He turned off the noisy, steam driven machine and stepped forward to cast an arrogant look over his newly arrived 'in-laws' and their accompanying posse of villagers.

 

"Well, well," he patronised, "what have we here?"

 

Fortunately Sergei was still too angry to be concerned about the picture they made, he looking red-faced and dishevelled. Alex looking like he'd been put through the thresher and still on his feet only because Sergei was holding him up.

 

"I've come about our agreement. It's not acceptable to me," Sergei said in a voice that could be heard by all present. "If you aren't prepared to acknowledge your brother then he's not fit to be my spouse."

 

Alex drew in a shocked breath at the words.

 

Nikolai thought for a moment and then inquired, "And if I'm not disposed to do what you ask?"

 

Sergei took a firmer grip on Alex's collar and swung him forward to land at Nikolai's feet. "Then you can have him back. The deal's off!"

 

Alex reared up. "You would do this to me?" he demanded angrily of Sergei. "After ... after ... "

 

Sergei looked at him dispassionately. "It's your custom," he said coldly, "not mine."

 

"I don't want him back," Nikolai spat out, clearly horrified by the possibility. "I think the pair of you deserve each other."

 

Maintaining his poker face, Sergei inwardly agreed with that statement.

 

Taunts from the crowds of 'Shame!' and 'Abuser!' and 'Cheat!' were directed at Nikolai who began to look uneasy.

 

Olav stepped forward. "Then it's time to do the decent thing, Nikolai Konstantin," he shouted.

 

The crowd roared its approval then looked threateningly at Nikolai, who quickly weighed up the situation. He came to a decision. With a noticeable lack of grace he pulled Alex to his feet, looked him in the eye, said, "Brother," and kissed him swiftly on either cheek, before pushing him away as if he carried some contagion.

 

Alex looked stunned for a moment then he turned and beamed at Sergei, whose heart melted at the sight.

 

The crowd clapped and cheered for several minutes while all directly concerned took a deep breath and tried to adjust to the new circumstances.

 

Sergei held up his hands to attract everyone's attention. "There's one matter more," he declared, pulling the crumpled contract out of his pocket. "I want everyone here present to know that Alex and I are together not because of a piece of paper, but because we love and respect each other."

 

He walked to the steam engine, but Alex got there before him and opened the door to the firebox so that Sergei could toss the contract into the flames. Together they watched it turn to ashes. Alex closed the door with a flourish, gave Sergei his best smile and straightened his jacket.

 

"I'm going back to the farm now," he announced loudly. "I have chores to do. I'll see you at supper, Sergei."

 

As he walked away, his lover landed a firm swat on his posterior. "Don't tire yourself out, Alex," he ordered to the delight of the crowd.

 

Alex blushed hotly but continued to smile as he proudly made his way down to the entrance of the field.

 

Sergei watched him go, entranced. That was why he didn't see Nikolai Zhuravlev's fist hurtling towards his jaw.

 

As fights go, it was more bluster than anything else. Though it did go down in village folklore as the fight to end all fights. Sergei wasn't sure until it was over exactly what they were fighting about, but it seemed that Nikolai took exception to the fact that Sergei expected 'his brother' to go into a marriage like a pauper, with no assets to call his own.

 

Sergei resisted the urge to elaborate at length on the wealth of 'assets' Alex brought to the marriage and instead found himself signing a new contract, by which Alex gained sole title to all the land his father had originally bestowed upon him, plus an extra stretch of grazing on the upper slopes that Nikolai threw in as a wedding gift.

 

Alex's signature, with the surname Petrenko, went onto the contract beside that of his new brother and his spouse, when the pair of them turned up later for supper, both a little battered and bruised and Nikolai missing a tooth.

 

At first, it was awkward and strained between the two brothers but it got easier as the night wore on and it held out the promise of a better future for them both. Fortunately for all concerned Nikolai had the good sense not to outstay his welcome, for the lovers had a little fence mending of their own to do. The exact nature of the fence mending is best left to the imagination, but suffice it to say it involved them remaining in their large, comfortable feather bed for several uninterrupted days.

 

Life in the little village of Alanazaniskaya settled back into its old routine after that and many mourned the ending of the Zhuravlev/Petrenko feud. Of course, excitement returned with the arrival of the handsome American with the strange name.

 

But that is quite another story.

 

finis


End file.
